So Simple in the Moonlight
by PostModerns
Summary: It was one night, Roger tells himself. Just one night. It didn't mean anything, because he's not gay. But it meant something to Mark.
1. I Know You Have a Heavy Heart

"I'm bored

**I Know You Have a Heavy Heart**

"I'm bored."

"...guh."

Mark can see Collin's hand moving slowly on Angel's skinny thigh, but that's the only movement in the room—only Maureen's and Roger's hair blowing in the artificial breeze of the fan positioned in front of the couch. Every window in the loft is open as wide as it can go; noise from the street—shouts and sirens and wails and the barks of street sellers and street people—drifts in, filling the room like water, seeping along the floor.

"I am too, " Roger says, glances at the speakers—Angel first, then Joanne. Jo and Maureen are laying on the floor together; Roger is on the floor, too, but a ways away from them. Collins and Angel are on the couch; Mimi is stretch across the back. Mark is standing, skinny and awkward, near the window. He is the only one without sweat streaming down his face, even though he's wearing long sleeves—it's a thin black cotton shirt, probably Roger's (he only thinks that because it hangs from his shoulders like a burlap sack), and corduroy trousers. Everyone else is barefoot and in shorts, or skirts, in Angel's and Maureen's cases.

Collins looks up and grins: despite the ninety-plus degree heat, he is wearing his beanie. "Alcohol?"

"Just whiskey," Roger mumbles, and his head falls against the cement floor with a soft thud.

"No, there's some vodka," Mark corrects. "Just not Stoli. Absolut."

"Works for me, my friend," Collins says gravely; Angel giggles, nuzzles her lover's neck. Mark disappears into his bedroom and comes back with a nearly-full bottle of vodka and sets it on the floor. He walks into the kitchen, rummages through cupboard after empty cupboard, before finding the whiskey—cheap and mean.

"Pick your poison," he says, and sits next to the two bottles of alcohol, crossing his legs Indian-style.

Collins laughs, full and throaty. "We're _all_ gonna be picking a poison. Everybody sit in a circle—Roger, do you have cups?"

"Uh..."

Roger hauls himself to his feet with disproportionate effort and stumbles into the kitchen; Mark, after a few moments of watching his roommate, says, "Uhm... I think they're under the counter, Rog."

"...I knew that." Roger drops to his knees and drops out of sight for a moment, emerging with a pack of tattered, store-brand Styrofoam cups. "I emerge victorious!"

He flops down on the floor again, stomach-first, and props up his head with his hands. He is in a rare good mood, Mark notes, and the filmmaker smiles for a second. It is nice to see Roger enjoying himself.

"Right." Collins slides off the couch, pulling Angel with him; she perches in his lap, both arms around his neck. "We're going to play Slut."

Maureen, Roger and Mimi laugh; Mark and Joanne, however, merely look confused.

"...Don't tell me you've never played that!"

"Uhm... sorry?" Joanne says, cocking her head to one side. "What is it?"

Maureen giggles. "Hon-_eeey," _she says, exasperated, "you really don't know?"

"Nope."

"It's like—okay—I say 'I've never'... uh... 'had anal sex'. So anybody here that _has_ had anal has to take a shot—and I pour. Whoever's drunkest at the end is the Slut. And the questions, obviously, all have to be sexual. Got it?"

"I think so." Joanne pulls Maureen into her lap and buries her face in her girlfriend's thick, beautiful red hair. Mark feels a faint stirring of jealousy when Roger wraps his arm around Mimi's waist. It suddenly strikes him that he is the only one in their circle of friends without a partner.

_Oh well._

"Alright! I'll go first," Collins says, clapping his huge hands together. "I've never... dressed like a woman."

Mimi laughs and slaps him playfully on the side of the head, but raises her glass; he pours a generous helping of Absolut in Maureen's, Joanne's, Angel's and Mimi's cups. They slug down the alcohol willingly and plunk down their cups like champs.

"Your turn, Marky boy."

"Uhm..."

He thinks for a moment. "I've never... uhm... w-worn lipstick? Shit, I'm bad at this kind of stuff, you can't spring this shit on me like that!"

"Lame!" Roger shouts, but the girls take the shots of vodka and smile.

"Joanne!"

"Hmmm."

She glances around the room and smiles. "I've never... slept with a man."

Angel, Collins, Mimi, and Maureen raise their glasses—then, tentatively, Mark.

Silence.

"..._What?_" Maureen says finally, breaking the silence like a rock dropped in a stagnant pond. "Are you fucking kidding me, Mark?"

The filmmaker shakes his head and bites his lip, but forces a smile. "Nope."

"_Who_?" Mimi says, immediately interested.

"I'd, uhm... rather not say."

The look that Collins shoots Mark is a little too knowing for the filmmaker's comfort, but he takes the vodka willingly, welcoming the burning in the back of his throat and the momentary stinging in his eyes.

"Mo-mo, your turn," Joanne mumbles against her lover's neck.

"I've never... given a blowjob."

"Seriously?" Angel's question is directed at Mark. He laughs and nods, rolls his eyes. "Yeah, seriously."

"Answer the question!"

Mimi, Angel and Mark raise their glasses.

"Mark! Shit!" Collins says, his eyebrows raised.

"What?" Mark is uneasy and a little defensive, _Goddamnit_, he thinks, _if they're going to ask questions like this, they're going to get unexpected answers. _

He takes another slug of alcohol and this time his eyes don't water. "I like how nobody's surprised that Mimi and Angel have done it," he says after a moment, but he grins at the dancer, and she smiles back. "It's part of the job, dahhhling—or, at least, it was."

"Rog, your turn."

"I've never, uh..."

"...finished a song," Collins mumbles; Mark smiles and Mimi snorts with laughter, which, in turn, causes Angel to practically collapse in a fit of giggles.

"No, _asshole_. I've never... uhm... shit..."

"...you're a liar," Mark says, one eyebrow raised. "That is _definitely _not true."

"Shut up, Mark! I've never—uh..." He glances at Collins and laughs. "Baked ganja cookies."

Collins cracks up and holds up his cup—so does Joanne.

"Seriously, Jo?" Angel asks, cocking her head to one side.

"Yeah! Junior year of high school."

"Alright, Mimi, your turn."

"I've never... slept with more than one man in a night."

There is a pause, then Mark raises his glass.

"Jesus Christ, Mark!" Roger yelps—everyone's eyes are wide, but Collins and Maureen are both laughing.

"Goddamnit, if you're going to ask questions, don't be surprised when you get answers!" Mark is blushing and flustered.

"Well shit! I expected it to be Maureen!"

"...Excuse me!"

"Alright, alright, I think Slut's about over—and I think we all know who the Slut is here!" Collins says loudly, slapping his thigh in a pantomime of hilarity.

"Ahh, shut up," Mark mumbles, takes another sip of his vodka (just for good measure) and blushing—deeply.

"Alright. Time for another game," Maureen announces. "I think... Spin the Bottle?"

"Oh, God," Mark groans, but there is no other objection. "Are we in some bizarre universe? Am I thirteen again? 'Cause we're playing fucking Spin the Bottle."

"I hope not—my evil twin would get _really_ frustrated—I can't grow a goatee." Roger laughs, tugging Mimi closer.

"I, uh," Mark says, stands, "will be right back."

He disappears into the back of the loft, bypassing the bathroom for his own bedroom, across from Roger's. He is searching in his dresser drawer for the joint he had been working on earlier that day when he hears Roger speaking from the door.

"Looking for this?"

He is standing in the doorway with the joint between his thumb and forefinger; the younger man freezes for a moment.

"Uhm... yeah."

Mark keeps his face expressionless when Roger tosses the blunt out the open window.

"Why the hell do you need that? You're half drunk already!"

Mark hears the others fall silent.

"Shut the door," he implores, and Roger does, stands there with his arms folded across his broad chest.

"So?"

"I just... wanted it, alright?" Mark is too tired to pretend or be defensive.

"Yeah? What the fuck is stressing you out so bad that you need to come in here and get—"

"Roger, shut up."

"—stoned? What?" The older man takes a step forward and Mark steps back.

_A step forward, a step back. Roger's hands at his shoulders, tearing buttons off of Mark's shirt in his haste, Mark's hands below the musician's belt buckle, a sudden moan tearing from Roger's throat—_

"Why did you lie?" Mark asks, very quietly, and Roger freezes.

"What?"

"About... about Joanne's question."

"I'm not gay," Roger says immediately, stiffly, and Mark's heart plummets.

"It sure seemed like it then," he says in that same quiet voice. "Since you were the only sober one."

"Shut up." Roger takes another step forward and Mark's heart is suddenly beating unnaturally loudly in his thin chest. For a moment, he is sure that Roger is going to hit him.

But no. The musician only stares at him for a moment longer before he turns, leaving Mark to try and decipher the emotions written across Roger's face like a code.

Regret. Guilt. Disgust. Shame.

And—he doesn't know if this is true or real or not—fear.

It takes him a moment to rejoin the group outside.


	2. I Can Feel It When We Kiss

I Can Feel It When We Kiss

**I Can Feel It When We Kiss**

Maureen claps her hands loudly and smiles at Angel. "Spin! Spin!"

They are all separated—each of them is going to kiss someone other then their respective partners. Probably.

Angel spins and it finally lands on Joanne.

"I've never kissed a girl," the drag queen says, her eyebrows raising.

"Well, I have," Joanne says and laughs: they move forward on their knees and meet in the center of the circle. There is a quick, graceful peck and they return, smiling.

"Mimi! Your turn!"

Mimi gives the bottle a mighty spin and, finally, it comes to rest on...

"...YES!" Roger pumps a fist into the air for a moment and Maureen giggles, moving towards the center of the circle. Joanne slaps her ass and Collins laughs; there is a deep, easy kiss between the two performers and they break away grinning.

"My turn, my turn!" Maureen spins the empty vodka bottle and it eventually comes to land on—

"...You're not kissing Mark."

"Oh, pookie, just for old time's sake?"

Mark catches Joanne's eye and shrugs, apologetic; finally Joanne relents. Mark moves into the center of the circle and he and Maureen look at each other for a moment; then, before Mark even knows what's going on, their lips are crushed together and Maureen's tongue is in his mouth.

He can't move.

Finally, the kiss breaks, and he hears Collins, Angel, Roger and Mimi laughing.

"Get the whiskey!" Mimi cries, falling over breathless in Angel's lap.

"That was like a cheetah attacking a gazelle," Angel says, covers her mouth demurely as she giggles. "Poor little thing."

Mark returns to his spot, looking rather shell-shocked.

"Spin, boy!" Collins commands finally, when he can speak again.

Mark gives the bottle a halfhearted spin and immediately regrets his lack of enthusiasm when the bottle lands on Roger.

"No," Mark says, biting his bottom lip. "I—do I—"

"Yes!" Maureen says imperiously. "Yes, you have to! It'll be hot, think about it!"

Roger and Mark are both silent as they move towards each other, towards the center of the circle. Maureen and Angel are both wolf-whistling already.

Slowly, hesitantly, Mark leans in; Roger's lips fit against his own imperfectly, but as the kiss goes on, they become more and more like puzzle pieces. Mark feels Roger's tongue brush his own and a thrill starts in his chest and moves up and up and up; one of his hands moved to the side of his roommate's rough, handsome face. And then the kiss breaks, and Roger does the unthinkable, the unpardonable: he turns away.

But not before he sees Mark's face, not before he is caught breathless by the shape and scale of the need he sees in that bare second.


	3. So Many Men Stronger Than Me

"New York weather can never make up its damn mind

"New York weather can never make up its damn mind."

Roger is sprawled out on the couch, listening to the rain with his arms behind his head. Mark is sitting by the window; the rain is casting shadows over his pale skin like strange tattoos. A drop runs down his cheek, down to his shirt collar, runs down his shoulder, his arm, his bony wrist, long-fingered hands clasped together in front of him. The dying daylight is ghostly and blue, cold, and when Roger looks at that still form, he is vaguely surprised that Mark is real at all.

"Have you eaten today?" the filmmaker asks after a few long moments—not looking at the other man—and Roger is again surprised, this time to hear that familiar voice coming from this: Mark is a statue, all straight lines and cold stillness, marble.

"I haven't been hungry."

"Are you now?"

"I'll live."

Mark stands and Roger half expects to hear cracking, crumbling, from those bony joints. "I'll go get something to eat."

"With what?"

Mark doesn't answer but walks out of the loft with a quiet "see you later"; when he's on the stair landing his pauses, pulls out his battered wallet. Seven dollars and thirty-eight cents. A fortune, if he knows where to go.

He is suddenly out in the rain and irrational cold, trying to think of somewhere cheap. The obvious choice is the ethnic market, but it's a long ways away. And then Roger's new skinniness comes to mind and he decides that he can stand some rain.

With the promise of twenty-five-cent loaves of thick brown bread in mind, he sets off into the chill.

—

He returns almost an hour and a half earlier to the mingled relief and anger of his roommate. Roger rails on about how worried he was after Mark had been gone for "a full fucking hour", but the filmmaker knows that Roger is pleased with what he's brought back—three loaves of thick, dark bread with kernels of grain that crunch between their teeth when they tear open the first loaf and eat a quarter without even cutting it—sixty cents for the lot, because it was baked the day before and two of the loaves are dented. No meat; they can't afford that, but he could afford a paper sack filled with small red potatoes (they, he rationed to himself at the market, would last for at least a week, one each a night, maybe more), and—

"Apples!" Roger says hoarsely, delighted, and snatches one before Mark can slap his hand back.

"And flour, ramen, bananas, peanut butter, rice, and snow peas."

"You're a _god_," Roger says fervently, and Mark has to smile.

"Try to make this last, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah—but, for now—"

Roger stands and grabs the bread, peanut butter and bananas. "I am making dinner."

Mark covers his eyes with one hand. "I got rice and potatoes and snow peas so we could eat _real _food for once."

"Yeah, but you know you can't resist my famous peanut butter and banana sandwiches."

"I'm pretty sure Elvis made those famous, actually."

"...Shut up!"

Mark laughs (it is refreshing to laugh, he notes after a moment, especially when it's Roger making him laugh—as of late, there hasn't been much call for laughter around the taciturn musician).

"Ahh, my good friends," Roger says, grinning broadly as he pulls out a bottle of clear liquor—Stoli, cheaper than Absolut and twice as potent. Mark smiles stiffly and collapses gracelessly on the couch, a tangle of long inelegant limbs; he's forgotten about the vodka. It was easy to slide under his coat—he's gotten extremely adept at stealing over the past couple of years. He's had to: first there was simply no money coming in, when the Well Hungarians were just starting out; then the band was doing great, but Roger and April were spending every cent on heroin—and then they survived on Collins' (and Benny's, though Roger has never and will never know about that) handouts—and even then that money went for Roger's AZT, so Mark still stole for them. He always, always feels bad; he's never told his roommate. The musician is still, after all of life's indignities, the most proud man Mark knows.

"Save it," Mark says, grins at the older man, and Roger's eyebrows raise.

"For what, pray tell?"

"I don't know. Something special—a special occasion."

The musician pauses for a moment, his expression unreadable, and finally chooses to laugh. Mark thanks whatever omnipresent being lurks in the sky.

"Right. A special occasion."

—

"You slept with Roger, didn't you."

Mark is in Collins' and Angel's apartment the next day, sitting on the floor with a mug of coffee clasped between both pale hands.

Mark nods mutely; it is no use asking how Collins knows these things—he simply does, accept it and move on. Collins always knows.

"That's who you meant—for Jo's question."

Mark glances at him. "Why did you remember that?"

"Not too often my best friend says he's had sex with a dude, then refuses to name him. Only one person I can think of that that person would be."

The filmmaker sighs. "Goddamnit, Tom, if you know any more I'll have to kill you."

"Lucky for you, I don't. When?"

"What?"

"When did you sleep together?"

"November—last year."

"...Oh my."

"What?"

"Not only did you cheat on Maureen, you need to get tested."

Mark looks up at him. "I wasn't, and I did," he says shortly, sharply, and the professor blinks.

"You weren't? And what were the results?"

"She'd dumped me the week before. And the results were negative. Jesus, did you really think I would put everybody at risk like that? I got tested the day after."

"Ah." Collins leans forward and rubs his hands together; there is a short silence. "So. Any outside influences?"

"What?"

"Was he drunk?"

"No. I was fucked up, though."

"You? Fucked up? On what?"

Mark laughs, short and humorless. "Pot. Alcohol. I don't even know, man."

"Wow."

A silence.

"...Why?"

Mark glances up again—he'd been staring into the depths of his coffee mug. "Quit asking questions like that. Say what you mean." Collins is the only one in their circle of friends that he can speak to like this, freely.

"Why'd you sleep with him?"

Silence. Collins reaches up, rubs the back of his neck, and then stops all movement.

"Oh, shit."

Mark doesn't even respond.

"...You're in love with him, aren't you?"


	4. Have Thrown Their Backs Out

It's dark and about to rain when Mark gets back to the loft: he has been out since four o'clock that afternoon in search of a job. The most promising prospect is a seedy little bar on Eighth and Banks; he doesn't like the place, but money is, after all, money, and something they're desperately in need of right now.

The air is hot and stagnant when he ducks into the shelter of the stairway, anticipating the coming rain with a mixture of nervousness and expectation; the heat feels damp and heavy on his skin and he knows that the loft will be uncomfortably warm. He is grateful that he managed to get to the building in time; thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. He imagines that the city is waiting with bated breath for the storm to come.

"Roger?"

The door is unlocked and, he sees, open an inch or so: this is interesting and faintly unnerving. He pushes the door open the rest of the way and fumbles for the light switch, finds it, flicks it on: nothing. Of course, why wouldn't the power be out, especially when he's nervous already, not even explainable, stupid—

"Rog, how long has the power been out?" His voice is loud in the dormant darkness, a little comforting, and he sets his camera down on the counter.

For a moment, there is no answer, only silence: something hits the floor in the next room and Mark starts. Roger is in his room...?

"Rog?"

He crosses the room in the required handful of steps and pushes the door open.

His roommate is sprawled on the bed, a thin shaft of moonlight crossing over his chest and ribs, slanting down to his hips, catching the thin curls of golden hair that start at his bare chest and trail down his stomach, disappearing in the low-slung waist of his jeans. There is a patch of sweat at the hollow of his throat, glistening in the dim light, and Mark wishes that he had his camera on him—

"...Couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut, could you?"

It takes Mark a moment to register the bottle clutched in Roger's hand: Stoli—he can't really tell, but it looks like it's close to empty. He is definitely drunk, and angry as well.

"What?"

"Get out," Roger says, doesn't even slur his words—he's always been able to hold his alcohol—stands faster than Mark imagined he could, "get the fuck out—"

Mark doesn't move; he is not underestimating Roger's drunkeness, but he is certainly underestimating his capacity for action.

"Roger, what are you talking about?"

"You told her," and now Roger is slurring, but not badly, "you fucking told her—because you're fucking _jealous_—"

He's close to Mark, now, and the filmmaker can smell the alcohol on his breath, sharp and bitter, and is trying to hold himself very, very still.

"Rog, I didn't tell her anything—"

"Don't fucking _lie_ to me!" Roger shouts, swings out: his aim is wide and sloppy and Mark catches his arm around the upper wrist. The musician's next blow is more accurate, devastatingly so: his fist hits Mark's face at the cheekbone and Mark feels a grenade explore inside his skull. He realizes that he's on the floor a moment later, realizes just as belatedly that Roger's boot is slamming into his ribs, stomach, and he offers no resistance.

It doesn't last for long: Roger is shouting, Mark knows, because the silence that follows as the musician collapses on the bed is stricken and shocked, pained. He gets to his feet, slowly, painfully, staggers to the living room as quietly as he can; he can feel blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth, seeping through his shirt, but he doesn't want to change in case Roger wakes up again. He grabs his camera: a moment later, he is gone, taking alleys until he gets to the café and the phone booth outside. Standing there, trembling against the side of the building, he dials, prays for an answer.

For the other residents of New York City, the storm is still waiting to break.

For Mark, it already has.


End file.
